


never so much blood

by MaryPSue



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/F, look what did you expect from me if not crossover femslash murder ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Lucille met the woman’s piercing gaze with her haughtiest stare, and the woman’s eyes with their smear of dark paint narrowed in a smile.“I’m the Goddess of Death,” she said, as though announcing that it was a particularly fine day. “How would you like to get vengeance? And a veryverybig knife?”
Relationships: Lucille Sharpe/Hela (Marvel)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	never so much blood

**Author's Note:**

> This definitely needed to be preserved for posterity.
> 
> Title, naturally, is from Ludo's 'The Horror of Our Love'.

“Thomas?”

The chuckle that rose out of the dark that surrounded Lucille was low and warm and infused with menace. “I’m afraid not.”

The woman who stepped out of the dark was dressed in the most outlandish fashion. Her dark clothing fitted tightly to every inch of her body, even her _legs_ , and her long, black hair was unbound, falling loose over her bared shoulders. Something dark was painted in huge circles all around her eyes, a little like the empty sockets of a skull. She looked like nothing so much as a circus performer, and yet, there was nothing at all amusing or ridiculous about the sight of her. She carried herself with the poise and bearing of a queen, and there was something predatory in her gait, in her smile.

It took all Lucille’s will to tear her gaze away.

“What is this?” she demanded, looking around her at the vague, jagged shapes barely visible in the gloom. “Where am I?”

She’d been – there’d been bare feet in the snow, a world of white marred with red, a cut burning on her hand, _Thomas_ – she’d been playing her piano – she’d been, been…dreaming…?

“Oh, little kinslayer. I’ve had my eye on _you_ since you first dropped poison in your father’s tea.” The outlandishly-dressed woman was watching Lucille rather like, Lucille thought, a cat considering the movements of a mouse who had not yet noticed its presence. “Though honestly, I admired your handiwork with your mother more. My heart belongs to a girl who appreciates the beauty of a very big knife to the head.”

At that moment, Lucille felt, she would rather appreciate some answers. “Who are you?”

“You don’t _know_? You’ve worshipped me your entire life and you don’t _know_? Honestly. I’m insulted.” One elegant hand closed with an iron grip on Lucille’s chin, forcing her head up. The woman was a little taller than Lucille, something Lucille had rarely, if ever, encountered, and she had to look up to meet her eyes. Lucille felt her heart drum out a frenzied little tattoo in her chest.

She met the woman’s piercing gaze with her haughtiest stare, and the woman’s eyes with their smear of dark paint narrowed in a smile.

“I’m the Goddess of Death,” she said, as though announcing that it was a particularly fine day. “How would you like to get vengeance? And a very _very_ big knife?”

Their faces were so close that Lucille could feel the woman’s breath against her cheek with every word. Despite herself, she shivered. “Vengeance?”

“Don’t you want it? I know I do. Family can be so ungrateful, don’t you think? Especially little brothers.” She released Lucille’s chin, but before Lucille could draw back, reached down and curled a hand over Lucille’s. Something took shape, pressed against Lucille’s palm, firm and unyielding and familiar. She looked down to see, apparently transmuted into shining black obsidian, gleaming brightly in the dark, the blade of the cleaver with which she’d split her mother’s skull.

When she looked up, the woman with her wild hair and wilder eyes was still watching her, with a smile that seemed to see and know just a little too much.

“Help me out of this place,” she said, quietly, “and you shall have all the bloodshed your pretty little black heart has ever been denied.”

Lucille’s fingers closed tighter over the handle of her knife, almost without her willing it, until her knuckles went white.

She hefted the knife in her hand, gauging its weight, its balance. Then she looked up, to meet the woman’s gaze.

For the first time in what felt like – years, decades perhaps – perhaps since before the institution, perhaps since the night her mother died – Lady Lucille Sharpe smiled.

There were teeth in it.

The goddess of death smiled back, and Lucille asked, “Where do we start?”


End file.
